


Modulation

by anonymousAberrance



Series: fugue [2]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: First Time Together, Gen, Reader-Insert, reader is not gender specific, same tags from staccato apply lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:39:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7301659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousAberrance/pseuds/anonymousAberrance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>alternate title: three of the many times you slept with someone who has no business being in a relationship with anybody.</p><p>(3 chapters of smut, companion to staccato.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> genitalia not specifically referred to-- hopefully it isn't too obtuse. staccato not required, but recommended, especially WRT the (eventual) third chapter.

Okay, on the list of people who are sexually experienced you are kind of in the low middle. But you are not naive. You have a computer. You use the internet. You are a human being and you have hormones. You have had these hormones since about twelve, actually. You also have hands, last you checked. 

But on the subject of experience, with specifically men, your teenage relationships with untrustworthy dude-bros you refused to go all the way with are long-past; and a not-drunk-enough one night stand with a guy who did not last much longer than a minute and passed out promptly after he finished in college is not something to brag about. In recent years you've found yourself in a sort of solitude. 

It's quite hard to get into a relationship when your life is work. You have no money and no social life to show for it. If your friends bring you out, when you have no excuse to give, and you're content to watch as they thrive. They're confident, experienced. (They have no trouble letting someone in.)

As luck would have it, it is work that brings a relationship to you. You went home the night you met him and tried not to think about what he might have seen in you, did not spend too long looking in the mirror in the bathroom. 

You've been seeing each other for a few weeks; you might have invited him in sooner if not for the fact you had no idea how to approach the topic without sounding like A.) a total fool, and B.) too eager. ("They'll just leave when they have what they want," one of your colleagues sighs at you frequently.)

You've seen people describe what you're feeling as a burning desire, fiery in nature. You are more to use the word aware. You feel your own heart beating against your chest in tandem with the pulse between your legs, the heat on your face as your mind wanders. You wonder if your eyes look as heavy as they feel. Every touch this evening solidifies your decision of yes, tonight. You aren't very flirtatious by nature, especially physically, but you are so full of want. You make a point of letting your clothes shift; reveal an amount of skin just inappropriate enough for this setting, touching his arms, shoulders, eyes boring into his.

You hope he reads you, but you aren't certain until you're leaving for the car. Rafe's hand is on the small of your back, low as it can be without actually touching your ass. His mouth is next to your ear, "your place or mine?" A tingle spreads across your neck. 

"I'm closer," you all but breathe as he drags his hand lower and his fingers brush the back of your upper thighs as he pulls his hand away as quickly as it was put there.

He doesn't touch you for the ride home, makes small talk as if nothing had happened and nothing were to happen. 

He follows close behind when you walk to your door, breath hot on the nape of your neck as you fumble with your keys. Thankfully, your apartment is cleaner than usual and you'd be embarrassed at the quality of your life compared to his but you are far too distracted. 

You don't think he's going to make the first move-- you've clearly amused him with your bashful forwardness. You're starting to feel a bit awkward, actually-- you didn't plan this part. You were thinking further in the future. 

You're in the middle of your living room, now, still not facing him. Historically you've dealt with situations in one of two ways: deflection, and/or a drink. You didn't drink much tonight, to your own surprise, and you think normally people offer that sort of thing in situations like these. So you turn, panic, and say:

"So, actually, my shower's broken, I was thinking you might know how to fix it, I'd really appreciate it-" No. What? You'd have thought, if his mouth didn't connect with yours.

"Cute," he breaks away to murmur, lips still touching, hands working to remove your clothes as fast as possible. 

"I thought so," you reply, breathless for the second time. His mouth travels down, stopping at the base of your throat when you gasp. You grab his collar and pull him backwards, stumbling into your bedroom. 

Your torso is bare now as your knees hit the back of your mattress, his hands coming back around to touch you. It happened so fast you didn't have time to pause in self-consciousness, in doubt. You pull on his tucked shirt, clumsy with the buttons, mouths still pressed together. Your arms are covering yourself, a motion of your subconscious. It's nighttime and neither of you thought to turn the light switch on but with your curtain open the moon and obnoxious city lights are enough to make you feel visible. You push his shirt off his shoulders to even the playing field. 

You run your fingers back from where he's taken over getting rid of his shirt, over toned arms and a prominent collar bone. You trace down his chest, his stomach, to his hips.

You unbutton and unzip his pants, smoother than you expected. You pull at the waistband, taking everything with it. You fall back in unison with his clothes, landing on the bed. 

You expected (well, hoped) he'd be hard but seeing it still delights you. You move your hand along his shaft, and flick your tongue across the tip. The moan he lets out is almost inaudible. Fuels your ego all the same. His hand moves to the back of your head, so you move closer, taking as much as you can into your mouth. You keep your hand where your mouth ends, tongue rolling around his head and his fingers press into your scalp a little harder. He exhales sharply, you look up and it's the closest you've ever seen him to vulnerable. He pulls on your hair, taking your mouth off. 

His turn to get even, now. You're pushed back gently. In a rough fluid motion, he pulls the rest of your clothes off your waist, underwear and all, tosses them to the side. On your back below him your heart rate spikes at this sense of vulnerability and bareness. It's not uncomfortable-- not comfortable either, but new, a sense of exhilaration. 

He puts two hands on each of your thighs, parting them (if your heart wasn't racing before, it was now); one hand slides down, his thumb brushing over your most sensitive part lightly. A high pitched sound escapes your throat, and he continues to work you with confident ease.

You don't come from this. You get awfully close, breathing labored, legs shaking, muscles tense- but he stops. You open your eyes and look up at him, ready to go off; though you look less threatening, more utterly desperate and lost to him. 

Foreplay quota achieved, you suppose. You crawl back on the bed on your elbows to give him room to move between your thighs, as he slides on protection retrieved from his discarded jeans. Had he not been so smooth, quick, practiced, you might have gotten to yourself-- how did you compare? (You do that in the aftermath listening to his breathing some nights.)

On his knees in front of you, Rafe runs himself along your entrance, one final tease that makes you whine in anticipation. Slowly, he enters; you grip the blanket and moan at the sensation. His hands grip your thighs, his breathing heavy as he waits for you to get comfortable. You buck your hips forward a little, and he returns the motion. 

His thrusts are slow, but deep, hands on your hips as he watches your head drop back, your eyes flutter shut. you're purposefully a bit more vocal to encourage him-- it becomes natural when he speeds up. The head of his cock hits a spot you've never quite been able to satisfy yourself before, sending waves up through your core. You've always been a bit on the quiet side when it came to pleasure, but now you're making noises you didn't know you were capable of. 

He shifts position slightly, horizontal over you now, one hand remaining on your waist as the other grabs the top of your headboard. This closeness, this mutual experience, the sheer satisfaction that right now its you and no one else creates a different sense of pleasure in your chest. You think you could scream.

He's getting a little rougher, faster, harder, and you can hardly keep still or quiet. You move Your own hand down to move things along for you,because no you don't want this to end but you don't think he'll be holding on much longer, judging by the panting and that look on his face. 

You reach your peak, going as fast and hard as you can, never been this desperate before. The pressure builds and you're shaking before you can even register. The tension lets out, leaving you feeling boneless, pleasure spreading under your rib cage through your chest, your arms, your legs. He follows soon after, letting go with a groan. 

He rolls off-- you're sensitive, and let out a weak noise at the movement-- but you stay, still, catching your breath. He lies next to you for a moment himself, before getting up, grabbing something off the floor, and heads to the bathroom you two passed. 

You're spent, blissful, tired, but you'll never catch a break from yourself. Is he staying? Leaving? He said nothing. In his absence you gather your underwear and an over-sized shirt from your dresser. Post-coital or not, you've never gotten accustomed to sleeping naked. You sit on the bed, not completely content to sleep until you know his decision.

You begin to reach for your phone before you remember you'd left it in the living room with your keys. You realize you don't know how to look casual without your phone. Look out the window, maybe? Yeah. You look out the window.

He reenters, shirt and pants folded in his arms, though he's put his boxers back on. You look towards the door as if you were not waiting anxiously for him. He gives you a look, placing his clothes on a nearby chair. You play the fool. 

"I could go," he says, in the way that he does. The way he knows you almost certainly don't want that, but it'd be nice of him to offer, give you an out. (You will look back on this when you think about how s _mart_ he was.) 

"No," you immediately say. Facade shattered. "I mean. If you want to, that's. Your prerogative. Isn't it?" You could be honest, set a new precedent, tell someone how you really feel. You get the sense he might not do the same.

He wears a smirk, amused and maybe a little condescending. He comes around the other side of the bed. The two of you keep eyes on each other. You crawl under the blankets yourself, eyes still on him. You push the boundary of getting closer to him-- you think he isn't the kind of man to spoon with someone at night and you'd like to be that person who didn't need anyone either-- but you are. He doesn't protest. You wonder what this scene looks like to an outsider, this careful dance of two people who maybe have no business of being in a relationship with anyone. Your last clear thought before drifting into sleep is that maybe that makes you two deserve each other.


	2. Chapter 2

"He just infuriates me," you scoff, "I've never worked with anyone so... Ugh. All the shit he's pulled and he barely gets a slap on the wrist." you'd come home after a particularly irritating night with world's worst coworker.

He makes a noncommittal sound of agreement, hands pulling down your underwear. You are not really sure if he's listening, but you don't super care, because you don't want advice, anyways. You are speaking just to vent. The universe needs to know how much you feel this visceral hate.

His mouth kisses the very top of your inner thigh, hands reaching up under your shirt to grope at your chest. You arch your back.

"Meanwhile I... ah... get fucked over for..." You lose your breath, and your voice, his tongue now running in a tantalizing line. "Being late... once..." your fury quells with every motion of his mouth.

You don't know if he heard you at all until days later, when you're at work and said coworker is nowhere to be seen.

"Mm, wasn't here last time either," a colleague says through sips of her drink. "Think he quit. Or got fired. Not that he didn't deserve it. Asshole." The uncertainty of the situation is enough to leave a weight in your stomach the entire evening. The unease turns to irritation on the way home. Blackmail? Bribery? 

There's a third option. It's the scariest. You try not to entertain it, and try to ignore the fact you're involved with someone where murder could be a legitimate issue.

You also hate to admit that tonight, without your coworker, had been one of the best nights to work in a while.

Rafe's in the bedroom, undressing, as you walk in. It appears he's just arrived home or at least retiring for the evening.

"Funny story," you say, indifferent, as you remove an expensive watch from your wrist. "That coworker I mentioned? Gone." You're staring at him in the mirror above the dresser.

He catches your eye, unreadable as ever, before he looks down again, undoing the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt. You don't miss the corner of his mouth turn up. "Well isn't that just strange."

"Isn't it?" You hold a look of detached amusement, anger on the edge of your voice. The intrusion into your personal life, the idea that you're with someone with the power to make someone disappear. You don't know what happened. You don't want to know.

And yet, you feel something else, beneath your fury. You can't put your finger on it. You're giddy, almost. You feel... empowered. 

You let your clothes fall to the floor. You turn towards him and push him backwards to the bed. His shirt's on the floor already, you make quick work for his pants to join it. You aren't sure what's taken hold of you. You press your palm on his chest, over the heart you often wonder is actually yours, and shove. He crawls back to center himself on the bed and you follow. You straddle him, positioning your hips just above his erection.

"I don't think I want to know what you did," you say. Your fingers are feather light, dancing across his upper torso. (You never find out. It's silly, you thought, refusing to know. But you realize you'd never know if he was telling the truth, no matter what answer he gave.)

"Aren't you curious?" His eyes are dark and voice almost weak. His hands go to your waist in an attempt to push you back, desperate for you. Even on the bottom he wants control. You're wont to admit he has it, too. You grab each wrist tentatively, pulling them away. You walk yourself back and lower on to him, slow as you can. His breath hitches in the slightest of ways, trying to conceal your effect on him. You'd die for that sound.

"Of course." The conversation ends there as you begin to move, slowly. It's more than a little fucked up, you think, that you've never felt more connected than right now. You still haven't dared to move faster, the eye contact between you two unrelenting. You planned to revel in this modicum of control for as long as you could stand, which, with the dull throb of pleasure between your legs that isn't enough; watching his chest beginning to rise faster, his eyes grow heavier, is not much longer. Your grip is still on his wrists, tighter now as you pick up the pace. you'll leave a mark, come morning.

You lean forward, forehead pressed on the pillow next to his head, pushing him into the bed as you reach your max speed, his hips coming up to meet yours. You think he might want to say something. you think you want to say something too, but it's hard to think of anything other than whats happening between your thighs.

With a cry of release next to his ear, and into the pillow, you keep moving slow as he finishes with a moan someone might miss.

Never you, though.

You slide off, boneless. You settle in next to him with ease.

"Don't do it again," you say, hands tracing a lazy circle on his chest.

"And here I thought this was a gesture of gratitude," he says sleepily, but the flippancy is evident. "What was it then? Your own brand of bribery to make sure I don't?" your hand falters. You may have been able to sleep, before that question.

You wish you could answer with absolute certainty.

No, don't ever make someone you know disappear, be it money, be it blackmail, or something unspeakable, ever again, you'd like to say. That was not your decision to make.

Or yes, it was gratitude, here's a list of some other people you hate. This is the person some part of you wants to be. You might be better off, might be at the top, might be happier with no regard for anyone else.

You are not pleased with your answer, but its honest when you say, ever sheepish, maybe it was both. He says maybe there's hope for you yet.

He falls asleep shortly thereafter. You spend the time listening to him breathe wondering how you feel about that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was so shorter than anticipated, but... i'm more interested to get to chapter 3. i wish i had done this in staccato originally. but i didn't have the idea to write these until it was finished because i had liked the weird relationship i had built. ah well. hopefully y'all are following with the "timeline"-- this is before scotland. next chapter skips quite a bit, to post-italy.

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally the first time i've ever written smut. i have read a lot over the past fuckin' what 7+ years and maybe kind of written some in my head but as for sitting down, writing, and publishing it, this is The First. i am cis and female so this... kind of reads more female skewed i think but i tried to be as general as possible. thanks 4 reading


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